Chicago, 1925
The bullet-riddled black sedan pulled slowly into the Chicago garage. It should have
been a mission like any other. Except this time was different. This time they was jumped
by O'Banion's gang. The car had been shot up but good, and all the boys was hurtin'. Well,
most of 'em, anyway. Somebody had ratted 'em out. That stool pigeon was in for a one-way
ride to Lake Michigan. Sleeping with the fishes. And it wasn't gonna be pretty.
The seven of them watched the hootch as it was being delivered from joint to joint,
like always. They pack heat, but they ain't into drillin' anybody when they don't have to.
I ain't one of them, though. I just work on the cars. But I don't think I'll be able to do
a lot with what's left of this one.
The Kid got out first, blood oozing from a wound in his shoulder. He likes to be called
"Two-Gun Dunne," but the guys ain't gonna call him that--leastaways till he
starts shavin' more'n once a week. He stood beside the car, weaving slightly. Somebody'd
creased his hat, taking a little piece of the Kid's ear, and there was blood on his neck.
With his good arm, he opened the car door for Spats Larabee.
Spats wasn't lookin' too good, either. A bullet from somebody's heater had opened a
crease in his forehead real good and he got drilled in the thigh, too, right through the
car door. He was gonna have a gimp for sure. It looked like he was hit in his side, too.
His fancy black suit had a big shiny wet stain on it. At least he ain't got a moll to nag
'im about it. There's a Mary Travis, an inkslinger with the Chicago Daily News. A real sob
sister, if you ask me. I think she's set her cap for Spats, but he barely gives 'er the
time of day.
The others waited for Spats Larabee to ease into a chair before they sat down in his
'office' behind the garage. It's a hideout, plain an' simple, but ain't nobody calls it
that. It's like callin' Spats Larabee a drugstore "cowboy." He hates that. I
don't know that he'd ventilate a man for that, but I've heard rumors...
Spats Larabee was lookin' over what was left of his six "associates,"
assessing the damage.
Deadeye Tanner leaned against the wall--his usual position. He'd been clipped all
right, a slug in the shoulder and another one in his shootin' arm. Blood dripped from his
fingers. Tanner's a tough pug, every mug on Clark Street knows it, but his face was
whiter'n The Kid's teeth. (Pearly whites, they was, too.) How they're gonna patch 'im up,
I don't know, since I never seen 'im without his coat. They may have to cut that coat
off'n him. And, brother, I'd hate to be the pill pusher what has to break that to 'im.
Pops Sanchez had been on the running board when the shots started. He got off quick and
popped one of O'Bannion's men right in the kisser. At least he got in the first lick
before they'd done a tap dance on his mug. He was no ladykiller to begin with, but he was
gonna hafta go far on just personality, now.
Buck the Rod was as bad off as the rest of 'em. (And when we say 'da rod,' we ain't
necessarily talkin' heaters, here.) He's got a gimp leg, like Spats, and it looks like his
arm's busted. Buck the Rod's got a boatload o' dames from Evanston to Cicero. And each of
'em thinks she's his moll. When they get a load of the fact he's hurt, I betcha they all
bring him chicken soup all at once. Should be an interestin' turn of events. Especially
those Batholomew twins. And boy, oh boy, if Vicki's there, well, there'll be hell to pay.
I know 'em all, and even with both twins up against Vicki, it's even-Steven. Either way,
them odds ain't worth four bits.
Nathan the Knife took a few hits, too. He ain't no doc, but as the far as the gang's
concerned, he's their sawbones. But them knives ain't just used for the occasional
patch-up on the boys. He can hold his own in a knife fight, you can bet on that. Spent
some time on an Alabama chain gang. But even Nate ain't got a chance when he's
outnumbered. They cut him to a fringe. He'll live, but his body's gonna look like a map of
the Chicago Loop.
Last of all, Lucky Standish. Lucky's his name and Lucky's his game. Not a mark on 'im.
The ladies ain't gonna be happy about that. He's no Rod, but he gets his share, and those
dames fight like badgers over who gets to patch 'im. Now here we are, most of Spats' gang
hurtin' and him smellin' like a rose. O' course, that don't finger 'im, necessarily, but
in this racket, a mug don't like to take chances, ya know? I know if it was me, I'd have
the heebie-jeebies right about now. Maybe take it on the lam so that fancy red overcoat
don't get replaced with a cement one...
Wonder how long he can hold his breath under water...
The End
